


Flatshare Etiquette 101

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flatmate Sherlock Holmes, Forced Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Mycroft's Meddling, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Scheming, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, creepy behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-28 05:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Before John Watson Sherlock had another flatmate living with him.When Mycroft refuses to give Sherlock access to his trust fund if he doesn't find a flatmate before moving into 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock decides that he won't be bullied by Mycroft anymore and figures out his own unique solution to his problems, making sure his brother is going to regret ever meddling in his business.





	1. Flatsharing- what nonsense is that?

So Mycroft thought that he was going to force Sherlock into sharing a flat with someone by cutting off the cash flow and thereby preventing him from getting the flat at 221 B Baker Street on his own? 

He had just about cleared it with Mrs Hudson, the contract all but signed and the first deposit to be made when Mycroft had thrown a wrench in the wheel, pulling the whole process to a screeching halt. 

Sherlock was fuming and his first instinct had been to seek his brother out, preferably somewhere where it would make the hugest impact if he caused a scene, like in his office or at the Diogenes.  
But when reason caught up with his anger he realised that sort of tantrum would just play straight into Mycroft’s hands, proving his point that Sherlock was a victim of his own whims, unable to act like a mature adult and combined with his track record of always getting himself in trouble, both in the physical form but also when it came to illegal substances of different varieties, he was not suitable to be living on his own, however much the landlady seemed to dote on him and his needs. 

Sherlock had tried it a couple of times before, most recently while living in Montague Street.  
That had turned out to be a spectacular disaster, even by Sherlock’s standards. 

But honestly, how was he supposed to predict that the couch was of such a flammable character that a single, forgotten stub of a cigarette could cause such damage on the one time that he had also removed the fire alarm, meaning to change the batteries but chosen to prioritize other more important tasks and thus forgetting the whole thing, leaving it useless, lying next to the sink when the fire broke out?

Luckily he had been alerted by the insistent banging on his front door while being in the bathroom, rescuing him from a premature death by smoke inhalation.  
If really giving it some thought it could be argued that he had actually learned something from the experience, a lesson never to smoke only half of a cigarette, leaving enough to burn a hole in the couch and causing a fire, it was frankly both dangerous and not very economical, but neither Mycroft or the landlord of Montague Street had seen this reasoning in a generous light, the latter one threatening to both sue and evict him, the former helping his brother with the first issue by producing a substantial amount of money to cover both damages and suffering, but not willing to help with the other problem, resulting in Sherlock being forced to move out as soon as possible. 

As soon as possible turned out to be within the week and meant that Sherlock had to either take his belongings and live on the streets or move in with Mycroft.  
The streets being the more preferable option he had made a go of that for a while, keeping his belongings boxed up in Lestrade’s cellar for the time being, checking into cheap hotels when he could. But performing his work while homeless proved to be more difficult than predicted so in the end he had been forced to take a closer look at a more substantial solution and by chance stumbling upon Mrs Hudson through an ad she had put in the paper, looking to rent out a few flats. 

She had shown him 221 C as well as B, C being in far worse shape although cheaper of course. It was too damp and dark, being a basement flat so he had gone for the other option, a two-bedroom flat upstairs. With the discount she had offered him on account of their previous history in America he had counted on being able to afford it with the money from his trust fund. Under the illusion of getting access from said trust fund now that he had managed to find a suitable flat in central London he had even deigned to call his brother after weeks of silence, telling him the good news. 

Unfortunately Mycroft was being his usual meddlesome pain in the arse, not seeing the good news for what they were, instead focusing on Sherlock being able to wreak even greater havoc in a larger flat than the mess he had caused in Montague Street.  
He demanded the presence of a flatmate or he would not give access to the money and he had even managed to talk Mummy in to this stupid stipulation of his, strangling the monetary flow for the time being. 

Stupid Mycroft with his all-consuming power complex and need to interfere in absolutely everything referring to Sherlock! It was galling! 

Stewing in his own dark thoughts, trying his best to make due with the nicotine patches he had been forced to take up since smoking in London was getting more difficult by the day, he put all his focus on how to get back at Mycroft for this and at the same time make sure that the flat could still be his.  
He had already moved his belongings there in advance, all but unpacked them, making himself acquainted with the rooms that were going to be his if Mycroft hadn’t decided to throw his considerable weight around and put a dampener on yet another of Sherlock’s plans. 

It was frankly astonishing how absolutely everything Sherlock wanted to do with his life was met with disapproval from his elder brother.  
Granted, falling into drug abuse and hooking up with Victor Trevor during the first year at University might not have been his wisest choices, but in the end he had managed to make a life for himself in London, doing what he loved the most, even finding his own personal connection to Scotland Yard when befriending Lestrade, helping him get better access to cases when the website wasn’t providing enough interesting work.

He was doing alright. It was just this business with the living arrangements that needed sorting out, and he had done that. It was not his fault if Mycroft suddenly had decided that he needed someone to babysit him when his own surveillance team weren’t enough. 

The thought of getting a flatmate did not sit well with him.  
Even if he tolerated people to certain degree, Lestrade being a case in point and even Victor once having served his purposes, in general he didn’t get on well with others and Mycroft knew this perfectly well.  
Why he was insisting on this was as stupid as it was cruel, no one would benefit from a solution like this. 

Where was he supposed to find a flatmate anyway? 

Sure, he knew there were ads, both online and in the papers, over a million people in London were forced to share a flat with someone on account of the staggering prices in the city so there would be no shortage of candidates, but that meant the excruciating work of meeting droves of people just to find the suitable one to share a flat with. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. 

He had no illusions about how it would all go down. If he had managed to survive both the initial school years and then University as well, without being able to form a single substantial relationship (Victor was neither substantial nor worth the effort in the end) he knew that he wasn't going to succeed now. 

No, his best effort would be to prove to Mycroft that he was wrong for asking this. 

While trying to calm himself down enough to concentrate on the task at hand, he sat himself down on a park bench in Regent’s Park, wishing for the hundredth time today that he still had a cigarette at hand or even something more efficient to drive the image of his brother from his thoughts so he could focus on the problem he was facing. 

If he didn’t come up with a solution within the next couple of days he would have to tell Mrs Hudson that he couldn’t afford the place and he would yet again be without a home. 

Without the artificial aid of either nicotine or something stronger it was proving to be difficult. His thoughts, when distressed like this, as they always were when caught up in his brother’s intricate web, turned to longing for the days when he had succumbed to the chemical bliss of drugs.  
Sure, the sacrifice had been substantial and not something he had been willing to truly pay in the end, but the craving was still there, calling him from the depths of his memory, reminding him of the initial bliss of injecting the greatest ecstasy he had ever experienced, second only to when working a truly remarkable crime scene. 

It would serve Mycroft right if he was the cause for making Sherlock plunge head first back into addiction again, on account of the stress he was causing him right now.  
But in the end Sherlock would be the one suffering the most from that experience, however much Mycroft claimed it was the greatest bane of his life that he hadn’t managed to protect his little brother from the abuse of drugs. 

No, drugs would not solve his problems right now or help get Mycroft off his back. 

If he was to put an ad out, looking for a flatmate, it was with outmost certainty that Mycroft would try to plant a candidate among those answering his ad.  
That had always been his method and even if Sherlock had long ago learned how to spot those working for Mycroft, his brother still always made the effort to try worming his way into Sherlock’s life.  
As an older brother who was forced to stand on the sidelines, trying to establish contact but never actually managing to get it, it was strange how he never understood the hint that Sherlock wanted to be left alone. 

But maybe, this time, it could work in his favor, that his brother was stubborn enough to never stop trying?

If Sherlock managed to spot the person Mycroft undoubtedly would send his way and then accepted him as a flatmate, he would be able to get access to his money and finally move in.  
The person being planted as his flatmate could even prove to be fun messing with for a short while, with Sherlock giving him the truly insane treatment of what it meant to ble living with him, with the additional benefit of confusing his brother by providing him false information, hopefully driving home the message that he should just leave Sherlock alone.  
If he managed to mess enough with the agent's head, that point would surely be proven in the end. At least he had nothing to lose by this plan and it would provide him enough time to be able to work out a better, more substantial option to his flat-sharing problems. 

Satisfied with this temporary solution he went back to the still cluttered rooms at Baker Street that he would soon call his home, to start working on a flatsharing ad, even deciding to be generous enough to get Mycroft the easiest possible chance of spotting it by publishing it on his website which was under constant surveillance by his brother’s minions. 

If Mycroft thought it was a bit suspicious, so what?  
The chance to send someone from his own pay-roll to establish contact with Sherlock would still be too tempting for him to turn down, suspicious or not.  
In the end Mycroft Holmes was a slave under his own habits and if you knew those habits they way Sherlock did, the easier it was to mess with the man.


	2. The astonishingly boring insult of a human being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets his new flatmate and predictably he's exactly what Mycroft would choose for his little brother. At least at first. Turns out this flatsharing business isn’t as easy as Sherlock first thought.

Cecil Trelawney - bespectacled, beige suit and a tie in a pattern resembling overripe aubergines is apparently what Mycroft has deigned to send Sherlock’s way. 

It’s not even a good cover, he’s claiming to work as a tax manager for HMRC, looks just as, if not _more_ boring than Mycroft during his most strenuous days at the office and he has the nervous habit of scratching the tip of his nose when unsure of how to reply to Sherlock’s questions. 

Totally pathetic and Sherlock almost feels insulted that his brother would send this little weasel his way, how is he even going to seriously contemplate taking this man as his flatmate without being able to alert every alarm bell in Mycroft’s possession? 

At first he’s almost unsure if this really is one of Mycroft’s pathetic minions, it's nearly too easy to dismiss this man.  
Is his brother finally getting as lazy as his appearance would suggest? 

But none of the other applicants fit the mould of what Mycroft usually sends him. 

There has been a large assortment of candidates with hope in their eyes in the beginning and then strained lips when he’s finally done with them. 

A few of them are students of course, because they always think that anyone who’s got their hands on an apartment in central London would be willing to share with a person without income, irregular hours, untidy habits and the self-assurance of a person not yet weighed down by responsibility. The irony of that particular description which could just as well be made of him is not lost on Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean that he would want to share flat with someone of a similar ilk. 

Then there had been a few non-Londoners as well, fresh from the provinces, bushy-tailed and starry-eyed, and Sherlock can’t stand listening to their dreary explanations as to why they have left their small-town lives to come looking for a new future in the big city. 

There is one young man from Watford, all dressed in black leather, a piercing through his cheek and dark eyeliner thickly applied around his eyes that comes the closest to resonating with Sherlock, mostly because he’s quiet, has a rather interesting appearance and doesn’t mind experiments being performed in their kitchen. In fact, he had murmured that he sometimes indulged in experiments of his own but didn’t go into detail of what sort of experiments those were.

Sherlock doesn’t care either because what he’s frankly looking for is simply the hidden agent among the throng of people who has replied to his ad.  
It’s rather surprising how many people have found their way to his website considering that the usual number of visitors is quite small on a regular basis.  
But people in London are obsessed with finding somewhere to live, preferably as close as possible to the core of the city.  
He can relate. He would detest ending up in a suburb. 

When Cyril Trelawney finally makes an appearance, Sherlock's practically bored out of his mind and in a foul mood. Spending precious time in the company of people he wouldn’t normally share a second with during normal circumstances does that to him. 

Cyril reeks of Mycroft’s fingerprints, almost suspiciously so, but at least it means Sherlock can stop interviewing anyone else, he’s not sure he could have made it much further.  
He decides to make haste of the procedure, putting them both out of their misery and just get to the inevitable end result. Cyril wants to please his boss but is probably expecting to be put through the grinder and Sherlock just wants to get out of interviewing more people but can’t be seen to just accept this person as his new flatmate without at least seeming to take the issue seriously.  
So he does the usual bit of presenting his worst habits, including the violin playing at all hours of the day, not talking for days on end and having their shared living room visited by strangers on account of his profession.  
Sherlock is aware that people in general probably would consider other sides of his personality as far worse than what he is presenting to Cyril, but no need to put everything out on display, Cyril will figure it out soon enough. Besides, his new flatmate will have to put up with it anyway, if he is to please his employer. 

After describing his own worst habits he turns the question back to Cyril who immediately begins to scratch his nose and Sherlock sighs inwardly, because really, a secret agent with a nervous tick? _Standards are slipping, brother dear._

With a dry, slightly nasal voice Cyril replies that he’s unsure of his bad habits, that it would probably be easier for others to answer that question, but if he really has to make a comment it would probably be the fact that he sometimes forgets to sort out waste into separate garbage disposals and that he tends to take his work issues with him when gets home. 

Sherlock who doesn’t really separate work from his private life tries to relate but when Cyril goes off on a tangent about the difficulties regarding taxes and people who don’t feel the need to pay them, it takes all of his efforts not to brush the man off as a lost cause and be done with the interview.  
This specimen of a man is simply too dull. 

But no, he can’t. 

Because he needs Mycroft to open up the trust fund so he can sort out the payment to Mrs Hudson. Maybe he can even try taking out enough money to pay for a couple of months in advance, then Cyril doesn’t have to stay in Baker Street for any lengthier period of time. Perhaps he can even suggest a trial period of only a week? 

With that thought getting him through the next ten minutes of Cyril prattling on about HMRC he finally gets to the end of that monologue and decides to make the process a short one.

“So, besides not being too concerned with environment issues such as separating garbage, is there something else I should know before making my decision? It’s probably important that we should know the best and worst about each other if we are to be living together. At least that’s what several websites has informed me, I wouldn’t know myself, having always lived on my own until now.”

Another scratch of the nose while Cyril contemplates his reasoning.

“I would say that my best qualities are that I’m punctual and tidy, I don’t make a lot of noise and I am told that I make a rather decent Shepherd’s pie.”

None of those qualities appeal to Sherlock, least of all the threat of homemade Shepherd’s pie, but at least punctuality and tidiness aren’t going to be a nuisance for him.  
It’s exactly what his brother would like to impose on his brother, so Cyril is probably the perfect choice in his eyes.  
Well, Sherlock’s going to break this poor idiot and send him packing, back to Mycroft before the week is up. 

Pretending to give the matter some serious thought Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his lower half of the face, looking like he's really conflicted for a few seconds, then he steps over to the desk, produces a piece of paper and scribbles down a few sentences concerning a trial period.  
He needs to make sure that Cyril can actually be kicked out when Sherlock no longer has any use for him. 

After writing everything down he explains the note to Cyril who scratches his nose, making Sherlock want to slap his fingers away from that infuriating habit, but restrains himself and instead gives his new flatmate one of his false but apparently endearing smiles, the one Lestrade says makes him feel uneasy but works wonders with witnesses and clients during work.

“I’ll be moving in tomorrow afternoon if convenient?” Cyril pipes up, interrupting his thoughts. Sherlock waves his comment away, he doesn’t really care, but Cyril obviously does because he puts his right hand forward, with the intention to shake on their agreement.  
How pedestrian.  
Sherlock pretends he doesn’t see and Cyril eventually lets his hand fall down again.

“We’ll be seeing each other tomorrow afternoon then, Mr Holmes. Or should I call you, Sherlock? I’m fine with you calling me Cyril. “

“Yes, yes, fine. I don’t really care.” Sherlock turns his back against him, already heading for his cell phone. He’s going to call Mycroft and inform him of the new developments.  
This will surely please everyone, for the time being at least.  
Sherlock will get his money, Mycroft will get his spy planted within Sherlock’s new home and Cyril will be able to please his boss.  
Too bad for the other two that Sherlock’s not going to be this generous for long.

After having talked to Mycroft and informed him of the new arrangements, even managing to sound reasonably polite for once, Sherlock is told that he will receive the money to his account within the week. One week with Cyril. That’s not totally impossible.  
He can do this. 

 

Cyril moves in the following afternoon. He has a few boxes with him but nothing substantial.  
He’s dressed in a brown suit today and the tie is burgundy. Sherlock can’t decide if that’s better or worse than yesterday’s ensemble. It’s all so…70’ies. 

Cyril tries to suggest dinner after having settled in the bedroom upstairs.  
Sherlock has obviously taken the larger bedroom next to the living room, he likes to pretend that he’s living on his own and soon enough he will.  
He just needs that money first. 

Living downstairs with better access to everything makes it easier to ignore the fact that someone else is living in the flat as well.  
He has already managed to tune out Mrs Hudson enough to not be bothered when she comes up to natter about something insignificant that’s going on in her life. He doesn’t mind too much, she’s nice enough and despite claiming the opposite, she definitely _is_ his housekeeper. It’s just that she’s talking a bit too much and it’s never about things that interest him. 

Cyril on the other hand is not much of a talker.  
He stays in his room, probably arranging those boring suits of his, perhaps stacking piles of paper from his work in neat piles so he can sit and pretend to work for HMRC, Mycroft is noting if not thorough, if he has given someone an alias he will surely be provided with suitable props. 

Sherlock enjoys unpacking as well, starting with his chemistry equipment which immediately draws him in, making him stop his unpacking for the sake of putting a few slides under his microscope, looking at the intricate pattern of burnt fabric fibres from the ruined couch which somehow must have found its way inside the boxes he had used to transport his belongings from Montague Street to Baker Street.

Absorbed in that task, the rest of the boxes remains unpacked around him.

He is woken from his investigation by the smell of food lingering around him and to his surprise he finds Cyril by the stove behind his back, immersed in the process of cooking. It smells like something meaty and Sherlock’s stomach to his huge irritation makes a low growl, working against his usual claim that the body is only transport. In Sherlock’s mind he could exist on air if necessary, basic needs like food and sleep are his brother’s area, being both a glutton and lazy to boot, but this does decidedly smell rather good.

Trying to ignore his stomach’s insistent growl he bends his head over the microscope again but the spell is broken and when Cyril starts setting the table around his equipment, his concentration is completely ruined. 

“I thought that maybe we could work out a cooking schedule, taking three days each and then collaborate on the final day of the week?” he can hear Cyril drone in the background and the temptation to actually give in to his stomach’s demands are instantly crushed, because food with stipulations? No thank you! 

He rarely eats to begin with, if he is to be forced to participate in making it as well, that’s just too much of a demand. 

He might just as well start showing Cyril that sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes isn’t going to be like a picknick in the park. A flashback to how things were with Victor back in the day make him shudder involuntarily.  
But he had drugs back then, everything is easier while under influence. This week could easily be turned in to a real challenge if he doesn’t take control of the situation.

Putting on his most disdainful look he turns to face Cyril, haughtily proclaiming that he neither cooks nor eats, so he won’t be participating in any cooking schedules. Cyril, scratching his nose (of course) while contemplating him, then declares that he has already invested a substantial sum on food for two and that he needs a monetary refund from Sherlock if he isn’t going to do his part with the cooking. 

“It’s only fair since I have already paid for food I thought we were both going to share and I naturally thought you were going to return the favour next time we needed to go to the grocery store. But don’t worry, I still have the receipt in my room, we can take a look at the exact sum after I’ve finished dinner.”

With that he clumsily pushes a few of Sherlock’s slides to make room for his plate of steaming stew and rice, seating himself next to Sherlock, not even opposite like a normal person would, but instead so close that his arm accidentally brushes against Sherlock’s and sends a shiver through his body.  
Because Sherlock hates it when other people touch him uninvited. 

Quickly he rises and makes a retreat to the living room, slumping down on the sofa. 

This flatsharing business clearly needs some planning if he’s going to make it through a whole week.  
So far it’s Cyril who’s grating on his nerves instead of the opposite.  
That needs to change. 

Putting his hand in a praying position under his chin, closing his eyes, tuning out the sound of Cyril scratching his cutlery against the porcelain plate in the kitchen, he dwelves deep into his mind palace, conjuring up the image of Victor Trevor from the abyss of well buried memories. 

They once lived together and if he fast-forwards the happy times quickly enough he can reach the phase before the whole relationship quite spectacularly crashed and burned.  
The time leading up to that episode might offer some advice on how he can drive Cyril insane, because as far as he can remember he was doing a fine job of slowly turning Victor into a quivering mess of his former self and that was even without the aid of drugs. 

Ignoring the distant throbbing of pain he feels when digging up these old memories he begins flipping through them as if looking inside a photo album, making mental notes of all the things Victor detested about his behaviour in the end. If Sherlock does this right Cyril is going to be sent packing by the end of the week and that will drive home the message to Mycroft that Sherlock is best suited to be living alone.  
The faster everyone understand this, the better.


	3. Creepy is the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to the conclusion that he might not be able to crack Cyril before Cyril does it to him.

Cyril proves to be a bigger challenge than what Sherlock had first expected.  
First and foremost the man, despite claiming to work for HMRC, doesn’t feel inclined to leave the flat and go to work despite it being a Tuesday morgning and most people tend to rush out first thing after breakfast, press their bodies into the commuting tube trains or busses zigzagging their way all over the city. 

Not that Sherlock is doing any of that, he’s trying to lounge around in his dressing-gown, waiting for a case to either manifest itself through the website or Lestrade, whatever comes first and while waiting for that, he is picking up the occasional item from one his twenty still unpacked boxes, contemplating were to put said item in an already fairly cluttered living room. 

To his huge frustration Cyril not only isn’t seemingly making any haste to go to work, he follows Sherlock around the flat with the insistence of a three year old shadowing a parent, constantly commenting on whatever Sherlock does, even when ignored. Finally Sherlock pointedly puts his headphones on to send home the message that he isn’t interested in a conversation, not with anyone really but specifically not with Cyril, but to his huge dismay he can see his new flatmate’s lips still are moving, despite Sherlock not hearing what it is that he’s saying and he continues to follow Sherlock around the flat.  
The man clearly likes the sound of his own voice, Sherlock angrily concedes before he finally throws the headphones off and snaps that he is busy!

Cyril stops for a second, blinking, before asking the frankly stupid question: "with what?"

Isn’t it obvious?  
Sherlock’s trying to make himself comfortable in his new surroundings and besides, he can end up with a really important case any second now!  
He needs to focus, not to be answering irrelevant question from a person he hasn’t the slightest interest in getting to know and will soon throw out on his ears anyway.

“So what exactly is it that you do?” Cyril asks, daring to flip through a pile of very important papers Sherlock has stacked on one of the many small tables cluttering the room.  
It must be some old woman-thing, along with the lace curtains and the strange colour scheme dominating the whole flat but most obviously the livingroom.  
No one needs this many tables.  
But fine, they are good for putting things on. 

Like those papers Cyril is now doing his damnest to mess up.  
Sherlock isn’t completely sure what they are but as he has bothered to both pack and unpack them, they must be something of significance.

“I’m a consulting detective. I told you during the interview,” he grits through his teeth.

Cyril pauses in the middle of a movement, managing to drop a few of the papers to the floor.  
He looks puzzled, like he is facing a huge conundrum.

“Oh. I thought you were making a joke. Because there is no such thing as a consulting detective.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, grabbing the remaining papers from Cyril’s hands, accidently ripping a few of them in the process.  
He doesn’t care. He just wants to be left alone!

“Speaking of work, don’t you have one where you need to be? It’s almost 9:30.”

“I’m having a day off on account of the move. I’m intitled. It’s in our contract, one day off work when moving homes. It can be very trying otherwise.”

Sherlock sighs. Cyril clearly isn’t going then.

“Trying how? I’m the only one with boxes to unpack?”

Biting his tongue, realising too late what he has said, he can se his flatmate’s eyes brighten up. 

“I can help with that. Since it’s our joint home it’s only fair that we should make decisions on how the place is going to look together.”

Eagerly heading for one of the boxes, Cyril starts digging through it before Sherlock has a chance to protest.  
A second later he lets out a yelp, picking up a skull, vicariously between the tips of his fingers.

“What is _this?!_ ”

Sherlock lets go of the papers he has been trying to put back into order, striding over to where Cyril is standing, snatching the skull out of his hand.

“Is that a real skull??”

“Yes.”

“Why on earth do you own a skull? It’s macabre!”

“It’s my former roommate,” Sherlock snarls, carefully checking it for damages before putting it up on the mantlepiece. It looks good up there.

Cyril stares at him for a whole minute, those stupid dewy eyes making Sherlock itch with ire. Then Cyril breaks out in a nervous giggle of the undignified variety, more reminiscent of the sound a donkey makes when forced to do things it’s set against.

Sherlock wonders if he should perhaps borrow a few of those blood pressure tablets his brother takes, this week is clearly going to put a strain on his health if this is what Cyril is going to be throwing his way on a frequent basis.  
Displeasing sounds, nosiness and general annoying behaviour, he isn’t sure he will make it through the week. 

Where are the money from Mycroft anyway? Maybe he should make another call? 

As much as it displeases him, the alternative to talk to his brother is preferable to spending another minute in the company of this idiot. At least his brother mainly has the good sense to display his displeasure with his younger brother in silence, making the largest part of his communication with disapproving looks and a frowned forehead.  
No donkey sounds in the Diogenes club.

“Look,” he says, trying to calm himself down a bit. “ I don’t really need help unpacking. I’m not dependant on a free day off work, I can sort this out in good time on my own.” 

Cyril looks disappointed, clearly having been eager to engage in something together, his hands already buried in another box.

“I just thought it could be nice to help out a bit. Get to know each other. I understand that it might be a strain to not have a job and I want you to know that I don’t judge you. Actually, I might be able to ask around the office if there might be a position available, perhaps in the sorting office?”

“I’m _not_ unemployed!”

Sherlock can’t help but raise his voice again but Cyril smiles a slightly pitiful smile, nodding his head.

“A made up job doesn’t offer any real money. The sorting office can be a temporary solution while you figure out what it is that you want to do. We can even commute together in the mornings.”

Sherlock gives up and simply strides off in a huff. This man is clearly an imbecile. 

“I'll let you know if it they say yes!” he hears Cyril call out before he slams the door to his bedroom shut and throws himself on the bed.

Retrieving his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, he sends a text to Mycroft.

_Money arriving anytime soon? Need to pay the landlady._

His phone immediately begins to ring, because Mycroft prefers to talk instead of texting, but Sherlock isn’t that desperate yet and ignores it, letting the call go to voicemail. 

He figures he has already had his share of conversations he doesn’t really want to have. Mycroft will simply have to cave in.  
He knows it’s stupid to irritate the man who sits on the money and consequently has his fate in his hands, but he frankly can’t be bothered at the moment.  
He feels himself sinking deeper into one of his dark moods and wishes that Cyril will take the hint and perhaps make himself scarce for the rest of the day. The weather outside is nice, he can go for a walk. Isn’t that what normal people?  
If Cyril is what constitutes as a being normal…

The beep from his phone, announcing a text momentarily draws him away from his thoughts.

_How is new the flatmate working out? Have you settled in alright? Money will arrive accordingly within a week, I already told you this._

Why is his brother so determined to taunt him?  
He must surely know that Cyril is someone Sherlock absolutely will detest.  
What is the point of trying to send an undercover agent here if there is a risk that Sherlock will throw him out in a temper tantrum? Mycroft really just should have sent one of the usual incompetents, they at least have the sense to keep quiet while spying on him.

He decides that his mood is irreparably ruined and throws off the dressing gown, putting on a suit instead. 

If that fool out there will insist on staying in today it simply means that Sherlock will be forced to go out. He can go to Bart’s or perhaps give Lestrade a visit, it’ll work itself out once he manages to get out of here.

He picks up his phone and a packet of nicotine patches, then steps out into the living room to retrieve his coat.  
But he doesn’t get that far because in the middle of the room he freezes, widening his eyes in shock.  
While Sherlock has been moping in his bedroom and texting Mycroft Cyril has been very busy indeed.

All the boxes have been unpacked, but instead of distributing the content in an orderly fashion around the room, a huge pile in one of the corners consist of a majority of things Sherlock himself considers to be his most precious items. Among them the stuffed bat and his beetle collection, several copies of Guns and ammo as well as the skull at the top of the pile.

“What the…,” he begins, opening his mouth, just staring, while Cyril rushes towards him from the book case where he has been arranging some large volumes about land economics and tax deductions. 

Silently Sherlock closes his mouth again, speechless for once.

“I know you said not to touch your boxes but when looking inside them I saw so much clutter. Frankly, some of those items are a bit…gruesome for my taste. I arranged a pile for them and we might get Oxfam to come and collect later this week?”

Sherlock lets his eyes wander over the rest of the room.  
A few of the furniture as well has been discarded and it’s a much more organized environment now.  
But Sherlock doesn’t like it one bit.  
The charm he had felt when stepping inside for the first time is completely removed and he feels like he is an intruder here, in what is supposed to be his home, but now more resembles Cyril’s state of mind. It's boring, pedestrian, neat and unpersonal.  
Sherlock hates it with a passion.

Without replying he simply steps over to his coat where it is hanging on the door.

“Where are you going?”

When Sherlock still doesn’t reply the shrill voice tries another tactc by simply speaking louder instead, piercing the room with his high-pitched voice.

“Can I come? We can check out the neighbourhood together!”

“No!”

He ties his scarf around his neck and steps over to the door, beginning to descend the stairs when he hears Cyril calling out:

“I was thinking of cooking lunch Iater. If you want some. Maybe some sausage and beans. Do you have the time to go through the receipts from the shopping later? We can do it in my room if you want? I have a calculator and everything. Not that I need it, I’m referred to as the human calculator at work, it’s a little joke we have going at the office…”

Sherlock manages to slam the door shut just in time to save himself from the sound of the screeching donkey sound giggle. 

With brisk steps he keeps walking until he feels that he has put enough distance between him and Baker Street and he stops to hail a cab.  
He needs to go somewhere where he can cleanse himself from this experience. He isn’t even sure if he can be the one driving away Cyril like he had initially planned to. So far Cyril seems to be a far superior flatmate from hell. 

After spending the rest of the day first pestering Lestrade and his team for work, feeling a bit of his old self slipping back into place while strutting around Scotland Yard, and then going to Bart’s to do some experiments on a spleen Molly had promised him earlier in the week, he returns to Baker Street quite late in the evening, having made sure that he won't have to spend too much time with Cyril who probably needs to go to bed early on account of going to work the day after.

The living room is luckily empty, the pile of his things still remaining in the corner but at least Cyril isn't there. He wonders if Mycroft has made him install cameras and/or bugs in the new flat despite being there himself to spy on Sherlock. It wouldn’t be above Mycroft to take those precautions. When he isn't feeling too tired he will have to search them out and flush them down the toilet. As it is now, all he wants to do is go to bed.

He notices an empty plate with a note attached to it as he passes the kitchen. There is food in the refrigerator if he wants some and beneath the message there is a sum written out. What Sherlock ows Cyril so far.  
Rolling his eyes he simply walks past it, discarding his coat, scarf and jacket on the way.

Taking off the final pieces of clothing inside his bedroom he then slumps down on the bed.

Just as he is about to close his eyes and succumb to sleep there is a soft scraping coming from outside his door. At first he thinks it may be the house making one of those characteristic noises old buildings with dodgy plumbing and creaky wooden floors always make. He had experienced it in Montague Street, not to mention the family estate which was as ancient and creaky as they came. 

But when he hears the scraping again it is decidedly from outside his door. 

With a sigh he removes the covers and goes over to the door, throwing it open with impatience. 

Whatever he had expected it isn't this. 

Because outside his door, in the shadowy hall outside, Cyril is standing, back pressed against the wall and with large dewy eyes looking at Sherlock. 

“What is it?” Sherlock sternly sks, not up for any more peculiarities from this man.

“Look, I get that you have obligations to your boss…” 

“Excuse me?” Cyril squeaks but Sherlock is too tired for this game right now, impatiently waving Cyril's efforts to play innocent off with his hand.

“Please, do us both the favour of not playing clueless with me. I know why you’re here, I have known it all along. So don’t think for one second that you have managed something your predecessors have failed to do based of the fact that you’re living here now. You’re here because I’m letting you and you’ll leave when your purpose is over. You can tell my brother that if you like, I frankly don’t care. I’ll find another way of paying for the flat if he withdraws the money. Now leave me alone and keep quiet, I’m going to sleep!”

With that he slams the door shut in Cyril’s face, enjoying the thought of his no doubt baffled face on the other side of the wooden barrier. 

Climbing back into bed he feels satisfied that he has done the right thing.  
The agent can do whatever he wants with this piece of information, he will probably report back to Mycroft about Sherlock having blown their cover, but he doesn't care.  
This experiment has been to stupid anyway. Tomorrow he will simply talk to Mrs Hudson, asking for a little more time coming up with a solution.

 

The next time he wakes up the room is shrouded in darkness, more so then when he went to bed.  
He doesn't know what it is that has woken him up and still half asleep he tries raising his upper body to lean over to take a look at the time on his phone ,charging on the nightstand. To his surprise he notices that there is something hindering him from completely rolling over. In the darkness he can see the contours of something next to him in the bed. Something rather large. 

As his eyes adjusts themselves to the darkness and sleep is letting go of his senses, springing them to alert, he sees that it is the silhouette of a person. 

A second later realisation hit him just as he sees exactly what it is that is lying next to him in the bed, mere centimetres from him. 

It's Cyril. 

Naked. 

Staring at him in the darkness.


	4. Disrobing a disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril has some frankly bizzare ideas about what he want's to do with Sherlock. 
> 
> Warning for sexual content of the forced kind in this chapter.

Sherlock just stared back, experiencing the, in his case, quite unusual feeling of mind not understanding what he was looking at. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Cyril’s voice came from the darkness and that broke the spell of shock which had overcome Sherlock.  
With a jerk he tried getting out of bed, ignoring the fact the he also was naked. He usually slept without clothes, he had no problem parading around naked as he had always lived alone and besides, clothes were restricting when rolling around in sheets. 

But when he tried moving he could feel something hard prodding at his thigh, directed upwards, towards the groin.   
As his eyes were still taking their time to adjust to the darkness and that area was partly covered by his duvet, he couldn’t know with certainty, but the feel of it made him consider the barrel of some sort of firearm. 

Sigh.

Mycroft had clearly not vetted this person carefully.   
Sherlock couldn’t predict one single scenario where his brother would give the order to one of his agents to get undressed and sneak into bed with his little brother while carrying a gun, so this one was clearly going rogue on his mission.   
The question was why. 

Mycroft would unleash hellfire over anyone who would dare to harm Sherlock, that was the biggest clue as to why he was having Sherlock under such close observation all the time. That and control issues of course.   
Sherlock was the last bastion in a world surrendered to Mycroft Holmes’s power plays, the one uncertainty which would not yield to big brother and Sherlock was proud of that fact.   
A world where his brother was king wasn’t a place Sherlock would wish to inhabit. 

“If that is what I think it is, your boss is going to bury your body in Siberia when he hears of this,” Sherlock sighed, doing his best to sound bored.   
Bored would be the wrong word for it, but he wasn’t scared at least. Not yet.   
This idiot might accidentally pull the trigger and that would most likely lead to Sherlock bleeding to death in his own bed, the femoral artery pumping away close to where the gun was pressing into his body, but, while that wasn’t a preferable outcome, he couldn’t be bothered to feel genuine fear despite everything. 

In fact, this might be the first truly interesting thing his new flatmate had done since first meeting with Sherlock.   
An agent going rogue on his brother, it could prove to be fascinating, especially when Mycroft found out. 

It might even prove to work in Sherlock’s favour if it meant that Mycroft essentially would be owing him his freedom on account of putting his little brother in danger. Mummy would never let Mycroft hear the end of this if Sherlock decided to tell her. And he absolutely would if Mycroft didn’t agree to let him live his life according to his own wishes. 

In other words, a situation which had looked bleak when he had gone to bed earlier had suddenly perked up considerably.   
He just had to make sure this fool didn’t happen to shoot him first. 

Best way of avoiding that would be to find out what it was that he wanted.

While he had been assessing the situation as best he could, considering the circumstances, where darkness, nakedness, the gun and the generally strange scenario this was presenting, was making it difficult for him to fully understand everything, Cyril had moved closer, the gleam of a smile now playing on his lips.

“My boss?”

His voice was slightly different now, not as nasal as before, and Sherlock wondered if it had been an act earlier.   
Oh, sure, he knew that the whole persona of Cyril Trelawney, tax manager at HMRC was a carefully crafted alter ego, but why change something like the voice?   
It wasn’t as if Sherlock knew how one of Mycroft’s agents really sounded, there was no point in altering something like that.   
And still, when listening to Cyril now, he either had disguised his true voice or the circumstances where making physical altercations to his actual voice.   
Perhaps he was aroused and this was his version of the bedroom-voice? 

The thought sent a shudder through Sherlock’s body. He was fascinated by these new developments but not fascinated in _that_ way.  
He decided to keep going for indifference.

“Yes, your boss. Or are we still pretending? That won’t change the outcome for you though, he will be incandescent. “

“You don’t seem to angry yourself,” the new voice purred (yes purred!) and Sherlock couldn’t help but do a grimace. 

“No use wasting the energy. Besides, it’s the first interesting thing you’ve done since showing up on my door step. Much more preferable to the annoying flatmate act."

Cyril giggled and for every little noise he made he seemed to peel off yet another layer of the old persona.   
This giggle was certainly not the donkey screech.   
Still not a pleasant sound, but at least more on the human side as far as giddiness went.   
It was slightly strange seeing the old Cyril, because he still looked the same, but with a new voice now.   
The gun also added another layer, and even if Sherlock wasn’t a fan of clichéd ways of displaying threats, this wasn’t so bad, it could’ve been much worse, with Cyril continuing to wreak havoc in the flat by domestic chores and other small but still annoying habits. 

This, Sherlock knew he could handle.

“Thought it would get under your skin.”

Another giggle and was there a trace of different dialects mixed together, making it a challenge of figuring out the origins of this person?   
Very clever.   
Sherlock was excellent with recognising speech patterns, linguistics and regional differences to both English but also other commonly spoken languages around the world as well as a few not so common.  
But Cyril was trying to confuse him by blending at least four different dialects into one softly spoken one, very different from the voice he had used until now, which had been some sort of Broad Norfolk variety. 

Sherlock decided to try his chances and put his hand under the duvet, feeling for the gun.   
Instead he accidentally touched something else, also hard but of a very different nature.   
Cyril’s eyes widened and the smile grew while Sherlock’s hand quickly withdrew. Wouldn’t be trying that again. The gun could remain where it was.

“Ooh, having a feel under the covers, are you? Be my guest. As you certainly felt, you’re more than welcome.”

Sherlock snorted, trying to compose himself from his embarrassment.

“Your boss should have informed you that I don’t do _that_. Not anymore.”

“Pity. Because I was thinking that we could be having some fun. _More_ fun that is, I have so far been enjoying myself immensely. It’s always a bit of a dampener when it has to be forced.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to widen his eyes.   
This man must be out of his mind. How did he think that he would be able to get away from Mycroft after this? Siberia was looking more and more like the child-friendly option, involve forced sex and there would be dungeons and torture for this rogue agent.   
Sherlock knew his brother wasn’t above punishment fitting the crime. He always did wonder what happened to Victor…

Instead of revealing more of his surprise he cleared his head of unnecessary emotions and reminiscences and focused on the man in front of him.

“To me it’s of no consequence how you’ve planned this out in your head. The question is rather why I would be interested in what you propose? What’s in it for me?”

Cyril tilted his head, regarding Sherlock. H almost looked like a reptile and it was unnerving.

“Well, as I am the one with the gun, you don’t really have any options. But, I like you, I really do. And I’m of the firmest belief that you and I will have fun again, in the near future. So I’m willing to be generous, on account of putting you through that ghastly flatsharing business. You’re fascinating, Sherlock Holmes, but not even I would put up with what you call shared accommodations on a regular basis. This is too much Bohemian dump for my taste. So what I offer is a withdrawal from this flat as soon as we are done. You can even keep the food I have stored in the refrigerator. Without charge.”

Confusion was now beginning to bloom inside Sherlock’s usually rational mind. What was this man on about?   
The puzzle he had put together in his head these last couple of days suddenly looked skewed.

Cyril moved even closer and this time he actually removed the gun so it stopped pressing against Sherlock’s thigh. Where it was pointing now what still debatable though. Sherlock hoped it accidentally didn’t blow a hole through the mattress.

“Love that confused look you're sporting and I look forward to seeing it again. But I’m on a schedule here, so I suggest that we get moving. As you just sensed, I’m ready.”

Sherlock tried sitting up straighter, crossing his arms protectively around himself.

“Whatever you think is going to be happening here, I can inform you, it won’t.”

Something crossed Cyril’s features, it was gone within less than a second, but it had been dark and hard. Next he produced the gun from where it had been hidden and now pointed it in Sherlock’s face, tilting the whole scenario even further.   
Despite sensing where this was heading Sherlock still had difficulty grasping the full picture and couldn’t help but returning to what Mycroft would do when finding out.   
But Mycroft wasn’t here now and as it seemed, Cyril was determined.

With a sigh Sherlock surrendered. 

“ _Fine_. What exactly is it you want from me? Oral? Anal? Intercrural? Or is it some tired old gun fetish you desire?”

“Why don’t you deduce it, _world’s only consulting detective_?”

There was a deriding tone in the last part of that sentence, making Sherlock’s protective shield staying even further in place.   
He icily stared back into Cyril’s eyes. 

He wasn’t even bothered with what he evidentially was going to be forced to do. Besides, it wasn’t as if it was a novelty, performing sexual acts unwillingly. He had done it often enough for drugs. The trick was to just shut the brain off for the duration of the act and focus on the technicality of what he was doing. If doing it right, the other part usually didn’t make it that long without coming anyway.

“I had pictured it differently but I guess I should’ve have accepted resistance like this from you. I’m putting up with it this once, next time I expect better.”

“Next time? Are you out of your mind? There will be no next time. You’ll be lucky if you still breathe within the next 24 hours," Sherlock stated.

Cyril just smirked and made a soft humming noise, clearly not convinced.   
Mycroft had perhaps fooled him into thinking that he was only a boring old paper pusher, as soft as his middle and not posing any real threat.   
Someone should clearly have informed this man of his employer’s personality before accepting this mission.

“We’ll see,” was Cyril final words before rising and with one hand pushing Sherlock down against the pillows while straddling him. The gun was still dangling in his other hand.

When comfortable he unceremoniously pushed his hard cock against Sherlock’s mouth, willing the lips to part. Having passed that first barrier he continued thrusting even harder, down the throat. It only took a few thrust before that familiar egg white resembling-substance started squirting down Sherlock’s throat, forcing him to swallow unless he wanted to gag. 

Unceremoniously he wiped his mouth as Cyril withdrew, throwing himself back next to Sherlock, panting.   
He had hardly moved but Cyril was clearly a person out of shape despite not showing it too much in his appearance. A man used to sitting behind a desk then. Sherlock threw him a glance as he was now fully on display next to him.   
Not particularly fit but not flabby like Mycroft. Dark hair across his upper chest. Not the same colour as the hair on his head. Probably dyed.   
Again, why bothering with that? Being under cover didn’t automatically mean you actually had to be under cover physically as well.   
As far as he knew, Mycroft’s minions usually didn’t do this much to alter their appearance or maybe he had missed them all doing it, never bothering with more than getting away from them. 

It sounded unlikely, but it was a possibility. Or this Cyril person really had gone out of his way with this mission.

Wishing for a glass of water, he gave the passed out man next to him a glance, then rose from the bed.   
Probability of being shot now when Cyril had got what he had wanted wasn’t that likely so he went over to the door where his dressing gown was hanging, put it on and went out into the kitchen. 

He could hear Cyril murmuring something from inside the bedroom but he couldn’t bother to care what it was.   
He suddenly felt very tired. He took a large glass of water and drank it greedily. Then he went over to the couch and laid down.   
He wasn’t going to return to the bedroom, he didn’t wish to see anymore of Cyril and his dyed hair, unfit body and that gun which was now lying in the middle of the mattress. 

He considered for a second if he should just go in there, take the gun and somehow retaliate on this scum of a man lightly snoring on his bed, but decided that he couldn’t be bothered. Mycroft would take care of him anyway and this was evidently going to be the price for getting his brother to back off regarding the money from the trust fund and Sherlock living on his own.   
Hell from mummy would eat up Mycroft from inside if she ever found out. All and all, this cleared out the problem with how he was going to solve this flatsharing business anyway. Over and done with.

When he woke, several hours later, Cyril was gone.   
He knew it before even stepping into the bedroom to see for himself. The flat was all quiet the way rooms only were when deserted. He pulled his dressing gown closer round his body and went to retrieve his phone. He was ready to talk to Mycroft now.


	5. The curious incident with the mysterious agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells Mycroft everything but events take a shocking turn, eventually leading to the reasons why John Watson came to be Sherlock's second and final flatmate.

As it happens Mycroft doesn't have time for a phone call from his brother this early in the morning but he suggests sending a car to take Sherlock to his office for lunch. He had initially suggested that they should go out to eat, at the Goring Dining Room perhaps, but Sherlock just sneers that he isn't interested in watching Mycroft stuffing himself, cheating on his diet and that what he has to say would be better suited out of public. This peaks his brother’s interest but Sherlock doesn't offer any further explanations and simply hangs up the phone.  
This is probably better handled face to face even if Sherlock abhors meeting with his brother for a longer duration of time than a minute, it always ends with his irritation levels going through the roof. 

He decides to take a look through the flat while he waits for the time to pass.  
His bedroom is more or less like he has expected it to be. No Cyril and no gun, no evidence of the nightly activities at all. The bedsheets will certainly contain some DNA but as the man works for Mycroft and probably has everything from his blood type to his favourite breakfast cereal on a file, that is of no consequence. 

Cyril probably thinks that he can hide from Sherlock’s brother, but if so, he is sorely mistaken, Sherlock know from experience what Mycroft has at his disposal when trying to track someone down. 

Upstairs, in the other bedroom everything is as Cyril has left it.  
A few dull shirts, underwear, reading glasses and some files from HMRC which certainly are false anyway. He has left everything behind.  
In the refrigerator there are Tupperware containers with food, as promised, as well as the rest of the food he had bought for the two of them.  
Sherlock contemplates throwing it all away, but on the other hand, items such as milk, bread, butter and so forth are stuff he will essentially need himself and going to Tesco’s for a shopping trip is something he hates almost as much as meeting with Mycroft. 

If he one day will make enough money he will pre-order everything online and have it delivered, the way he does with his cleaning.  
As he prioritises clothes over food he puts his meagre finances on cab fares and dry cleaning, ignoring the nattering voice of his brother who insists that such mundane things as food, water and electricity should be top priority. 

Around a quarter past eleven the usual black car drives up to the kerb and Sherlock makes a point of having it wait for him out of spite, sauntering down fifteen minutes later.

The car takes him to Mycroft’s office where his brother and his PA are waiting for him.  
Anthea shadows Mycroft during all his working hours, only leaving his side when explicitly told to do so.  
She thinks Sherlock is a spoiled brat and he in turn thinks she is an idiot for choosing to work for someone like his brother, but over the years they have at least learned to tolerate each other. She has seen Sherlock at his worst during his drug fuelled years and he has seen her cry once, during the first year as employed by Mycroft. Those incidents have been their weakest points, never to be addressed but it somehow humanises them to each other. 

Still, Sherlock is a bit hesitant at first if she should remain in the room when he tells Mycroft what Cyril has done. On the other hand, this is all Mycroft’s fault, it can do her good to see that her boss has the ability to make mistakes as well as everyone else.

Mycroft is seated behind his desk, hands crossed over his stomach, a glint of curiosity in his eyes when Sherlock comes in and actually sits down in the opposite chair. Sherlock never usually has the patience to properly take a seat when visiting his brother. Anthea is standing behind Mycroft's right shoulder, ready to follow any orders he might have. 

“To what do I owe the honour of your visit, brother dear? If it is about the money, I have already told you when they can be expected.”

“No, it’s not about the money. Even if I do look forward to seeing them soon enough.”

Mycroft ignores that jab, focusing on staying polite. 

“How are things with your new flatmate? I have been meaning to stop by but you know how it is.”

“Yes, yes, always a crisis going on somewhere, needing your attention. But be careful so your attention doesn’t solely focus in one direction, or it might be said that your standards are slipping.”

Mycroft furrows his brow slightly. He isn't a man with a huge variety of facial expressions, but for his brother he usually gives some of them the freedom to roam his face. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about how your vetting procedure seemingly hasn’t been as effective as it used to be. You have let quite a big one slip through your net this time.”

Mycroft sighs and his eyes are growing impatient.

“What are you trying to tell me, Sherlock?”

“I’m telling you that the agent you sent me to be my flatmate, _Cyril Trelawney_ , or whatever his real name might be, crossed the line quite thoroughly last night.”

Now Mycroft’s confusion grows even more evident and he turn tos give Anthea a searching look before turning back to Sherlock.

“What do you mean _my agent_? As far as I know, you turned him down, as you always do, I might add. It won’t mean that I will strop trying, I even went for someone I thought would peak your interest this time, someone not looking so much as the usual candidates I send you. But you still turned him down.”

Now it's Sherlock’s turn to let confusion sweep over his face. But no, there has to be some misunderstanding going on here. Cyril most definitely is one of Mycroft’s men. There is an easy way to prove this.

“Describe the man you sent to me. What did he look like?”

“Well, like I said. I went in a slightly different direction this time, trying to intrigue you rather than just sending someone you would likely recognize immediately. He was a young man, a bit _gothic_ looking, if that is the correct term. He had black leather clothes and a…ehem, _piercing_ through his right cheek. I thought it a bit drastic but he insisted and I actually had some hope that he would appeal to your curiosity at least. But alas, no such luck.”

Sherlock feels himself actually blanch while Mycroft talks. That man from Watford? Had he been the actual agent?  
No, Mycroft must be joking. Or forgetting that he sent two perhaps? 

He knows it’s stupid reasoning but the alternative is too horrible to contemplate right now. He turns to look at Anthea for confirmation, but she looks just as surprised as Mycroft does. A clamminess breaks out all over Sherlock’s body, making him shiver despite wearing both a shirt, a jacket and his heavy coat in a well-heated room. For a second he wonders if he’s going to loose his breakfast right here on the carpet if he continues to unravel this mystery.

Mycroft who can read his distress, immediately grows worried and even Anthea steps forward, clear concern in her features. Sherlock tries focusing on her and not his brother while his thoughts begin to spin out of control inside his head.

“But tell me, Sherlock. What is it that has happened to you? And who is this Cyril Trelawney? Why did you think he was working for me?”

Sherlock just shakes his head firmly. Yes, that breakfast will be coming up any second now, making an intricate pattern on Mycroft’s plush beige carpet. 

“Sherlock, please! You’re beginning to scare me. Pull yourself together and talk to me. Why are you here?”

As if talking out of pure instinct Sherlock begins telling his brother and Anthea about his plan, how he had deduced this man, Cyril Trelawney, to have been sent by Mycroft and how his behaviour at first had been grating on his nerves but still had been well within normal human behaviour, even if beyond irritating. How things then quickly got out of control. When he gets to the part where he had found Cyril creeping about outside his bedroom door, there is deep concern in his brother’s features and when he hears Sherlock tell them about Cyril lying naked in his bed with a gun pressed against his thigh he looks both appalled and horrified at the same time. Anthea looks like she can’t grasp what’s she’s actually hearing and Mycroft orders her to leave before Sherlock finishes off with the forced sexual act that had occurred between him and Cyril.

Mycroft is silent for a full minute before trying to school his features back into his usual bland look. He suddenly looks very old and very fragile, a look Sherlock has only seen once before, when Sherlock had overdosed on cocain in his early twenties. It was right after Victor had left.  
Then, suddenly, Mycroft gets a hold of himself again, springs into action in his own, very non-actionlike way, picking up his phone and gives the order for a team to head over to Baker street to procure every piece of evidence there is. The second call is to a team who are meant to track down this Cyril Trelawney, based on the information Sherlock has provided, scan CCTV for a person leaving the flat sometime between late last night and early morning and then follow that trace as far it goes.

Sherlock can’t help but feel relieved by his brother’s ability to take charge of the situation, because the shock is beginning to take hold of him now, rendering himself uncapable of coming up with any rationality because his thoughts keep churning over the fact that he has been tricked into letting a complete stranger move into his home and that stranger has then been able to both threaten him with a weapon and then take advantage of him sexually.  
It’s the fact that he has been fooled that smarts the most.  
The other thing is just concerning the body, he doesn’t bother with _that_ anyway, it hadn’t hurt him and it had been over swiftly enough. But that he has been duped, that truly gnaws on his thoughts and he can see that it does on Mycroft's as well.  
Despite being fully professional, making all the right calls and orders, he has been truly shaken by Sherlock’s story and he’s doing his best to not let those emotions loose. If he succumbs to his feelings he won’t be of any use to Sherlock and what matters right now is catching that monster of a man who has done this to Mycroft Holmes’s little brother. 

But unfortunately they end up with nothing despite everyone’s best efforts. 

The DNA comes up empty, Cyril isn’t in any database available. The CCTV catches a man leaving Baker Street at 04:55 but he jumps into a car which later turns out being completely destroyed in a fire outside Croydon, all evidence of anything substantial destroyed. The man has disappeared and at the HMRC they have never had a Cyril Trelawney in their employment. It’s as if the man has just simply disappeared from the face of the earth.  
Mycroft even manages to put his people on border patrol, looking for Cyril both on train stations, airports and harbours but comes up empty handed. Chances are that Cyril has changed his appearance, there had been hints of him disguising himself after all and in the end they have to give up the search, despite Mycroft’s reluctance to do so. 

When John Watson becomes the second flatmate to move in with Sherlock Holmes it is on account of both Sherlock and Mycroft not wanting Sherlock to be living alone anymore in Baker Street. The former army doctor is put through both a kidnapping and a following interview with Mycroft Holmes in an abandoned warehouse before being allowed to move in with Sherlock and it takes a long time for big brother to completely trust the new flatmate, sticking his nose into their whereabout as often as he can, even upgrading the surveillance status on his brother and his new partner when the first thing they end up doing together is chasing down a serial killer running amok in London, poisoning people. 

Several months later, when John Watson has come over the initial uncertainties regarding the feelings he has for his gorgeous flatmate and actually succumbs to be in a relationship with the madman, Mycroft is equal parts worried as well as relieved. Sherlock is actually happy, more happy than he has been for many years and he is well looked after by the good doctor. But memories of Victor Trevor and how that situation completely crashed and burned is still resonating within Mycroft sometimes. Emotions are always a weakness in the end, however you choose to look at it. 

As Sherlock is lying with his head in John Watson’s lap one afternoon, letting his curls be stroked affectionally by the doctor as they try doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle together, Mycroft is content to leave them alone. Saying his goodbyes, he passes Mrs Hudson who comes up the stairs with a tray of biscuits, some tea and a white envelope.

Declining the tea but snatching a still warm oatmeal biscuit Sherlock reach for the envelope, absent-mindedly opening it while simultaneously informing John that the answer to the ten-letter word of “genetic birth right” is congenital. He withdraws the simple piece of paper the envelope contains and reads it, frowning at first and then feeling the chilling cold of distress grabbing him from the inside, making his heart beat faster.

_I have been thinking about our night together. Looking forward to picking up where we left of. You’ll be hearing from me soon._

_Affectionately yours_

_Cyril._

When Sherlock two weeks later step inside a closed indoors pool with a memory stick containing the Bruce Partington plans Mycroft has asked him to retrieve, pressing it firmly in his hand as well as keeping a gun hidden under his jacket, ready to meet the anonymous bomber who has been playing the most invigorating game of puzzles with him for the past couple of days, that same chilling sensation runs through him when the door on the opposite side of the pool area opens and Cyril steps out. 

He looks different of course, this time black-haired, nice expensive suit and he speaks with an Irish lilt, but Sherlock recognises him immediately and the final piece of a long-term puzzle which he has never truly abandoned but have kept on the backburner, falls into piece, revealing the solution. 

This man, now calling himself Moriarty, has been keeping his eyes on Sherlock for a long time now, as is evident when you consider Carl Power’s trainers and Sherlock’s involvement in that case many years ago. 

Sherlock missed the person lurking in the shadows that time, he was only a kid after all. The second time they met, Moriarty was playing a new kind of game with him, probably all giddy about being able to dupe the consulting detective and even getting to share the memory of a night none of them are likely to ever forget. 

This time, Sherlock is ready and he sees his enemy bright and clear.  
With John Watson in a Semtex west and the memory of Cyril/Moriarty leering at him in the darkness of Sherlock’s bedroom six months ago, before forcing the cock down his throat, anger is surging through Sherlock as he raises his arm with the gun in his hand, aiming at an enemy, both old and new.


End file.
